


Sherlock is a Girl's Name

by PandoraButler



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Genderbend, Girl Sherlock, John IS Gay, John is also male, M/M, canon except everyone is genderbent except John because I was lazy and wanted him to be gay, idk how to do tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2019-07-29 19:04:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16270442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandoraButler/pseuds/PandoraButler
Summary: Imagine, for a second, that you are in the Sherlock universe...but...Sherlock is a girl.It's not just Sherlock though.Mycroft is a girl too.Molly is a guy.And the list continues...Welcome to: Genderbent Sherlock.





	Sherlock is a Girl's Name

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off of the Titan Comics version of the show and not the show itself so some of the things might be out of order. Otherwise it's basically canon with some "minor" changes.

"The body of the missing individual was found recently. Preliminary tests have been done and it is now believed to be a suicide. Plain and simple," Donovan stated. He was sitting in the press-conference before the multitude of angry individuals. Next to him, was D.I. Lestrade. She was sighing. She wanted to be out of this mess. But, there was no escaping it. This was, yet another, suicide. What was causing this madness? What was causing these deaths? Was there something in the food? Causing a splurge of depression? Who knew? Who knows? Who could help stop it?

"This suicide appears to be very similar to the others. We may assume that there is a link," Lestrade announced. She took a sip of her coffee. This was going to be a long day.  _Any_  day working in this business was a long day. People needed to stop dying all the time. That would be great. Then, she wouldn't have to put up with this.

"Excuse me," an individual raised their hand, "but, how can suicides be  _linked_?" they asked. Lestrade sighed. Yes, that was the question, wasn't it? If she knew the answer, don't you think she would have solved this mess by now? Unfortunately, she didn't know the answer. And so, she was stuck here, giving the people information that wouldn't be of any use to them. Some detective she turned out to be.

"They all took the same poison," Lestrade stated, "and they all appeared in places they had no right to be in. So, we can only assu-"

"Yes, but, you can't have serial  _suicides_!" the individual interrupted. 

"Well, yes, apparently, you  _can_ ," Lestrade snarkily replied. Don't tell her what  _can_  and  _can't_  happen! She knew someone, someone that did that quite enough already, thank you. No more smart-alecks needed in her life.

"Is there no link connecting the individuals to each other?" another person raised their voice to ask. 

"No, no link has been found ye-" she began. However, she was interrupted, once more, by the sound of all the phones going off in the room. What was this? No, there could only be  _one_  person that could manage this act. Lestrade sighed. Don't you know? That if you sigh? A bit of happiness leaves you? Lestrade placed her head in her hands. It's over. It's over now. Why does that individual, always,  _always_ , have to ruin the Scotland Yard's image? Couldn't they give the detectives a break? Every now and again? No? That was too much to ask? Another sigh escaped Lestrade.

"What's it say?" Lestrade muttered under her breath. She glanced at the male next to her.

"It simply says 'Wrong!'" Donovan whispered back. She raised her voice to address the audience, "if you get any texts, please ignore them. Now, if there are no further questions, we will bring this conference to a close. We have investigating to get back to," Donovan stated.

"If these are suicides, what do you have to  _investigate_?"

"As I said before, these may be suicides but they are clearly  _linked_. Please, do not fear, we have our best people on the case," Lestrade said. She was trying to maintain the atmosphere but it was too late. The outsider had already gained control. What was the point in having a detective agency, if it will only be ruined by amateurs? 

The phones went off in the room a second time. Donovan glanced to Lestrade and muttered, "it just says 'Wrong!'  _again_."

"One more question!" a person spoke up, "is there a possibility that this  _isn't_  linked suicides...but rather  _murders_? Do we have a  _serial killer_  on our hands?!" the audience gasped at the question and whispered among themselves. The control in the room had been lost. There was no getting back on topic. Lestrade stood up and gestured for Donovan to follow. She was fed up with this. It was time to leave.

"No further questions," Lestrade stated and began to leave the room.

"But, Detective Inspector, how do we keep our people  _safe_?" a news reporter asked. Didn't Lestrade say no further questions? Didn't the one audience member say 'one last question'? So, why then, were they asking  _yet another_  question? It hardly seemed fair.

Lestrade, who had long since been fed up with this, simply said the first thing that came to mind. "If you don't want to die, then, don't commit suicide, obviously," she rolled her eyes and exited the room. Donovan nodded to the crowd and followed behind. 

Lestrade felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She had a sneaking suspicion it was the same individual that sent all those messages before. It probably said something like: 'You know where to find me -SH' Lestrade let out a groan. She didn't even  _want_  to look at it. Why, couldn't she just live a quiet life? If she lived long enough to retire, perhaps, she would go live up in the mountains. Yeah, that would be nice, wouldn't it? Away from society. Away from it all. Yes, that would be lovely.

"You need to get her to stop that. She is making us look like morons," Donovan muttered. Lestrade turned on her one-inch heel and looked him in the eyes.

"By all means, if you can figure out how shedoes _it,_  tell me, and I'll get right on that. But. I don't know. Neither do  _you_. So, get off my case, will you? You and I have work to do. Thank you very much," Lestrade glared. She had reached the top level of what she was going to tolerate today. Donovan was  _not_  helping her current mood.

"Ma'am, are you, maybe, on your  _period_?" Donovan questioned. Lestrade inhaled, then exhaled, and pretended that Donovan hadn't just asked that. She turned on her heel once more, and began walking down the hallway. Why did males think, that women could only be mad, when on their  _period_? It was pure stupidity.

"So, is that a 'yes' then?" Donovan called. Lestrade rolled her eyes and kept walking. There was no time for male games.

...

Blood. Shooting. Guts. Yelling. Guns. War. People. Dying.  _War_. The male laid on his bed and opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling and shivered. The memories of what had happened; the fear of what would come. How was he supposed to live on? It didn't seem possible. It didn't seem right. He had seen so many people die. He had taken so many lives himself. No, it wasn't right. Why was he here? What was his purpose? Living, wasn't worth it. 

The male sat up and maneuvered to the side of his bed. He looked around in the small abode. He needed a roommate. He needed  _something_  that was better than this. He was alone. A man should never be alone, not while depressed. He looked to the cane, it was a good distance away, and he sighed. He closed his eyes and fought back the tears.

How long had it been? Since he had last eaten? How long would it be? Till he found a reason to continue on with life? He let out a sigh, a long, drawn out, sigh. He opened his eyes and stared at the cane. He stared at his leg. Curse it all. Curse everything. Those suicides, on the news, wouldn't it be nice, if that was him instead?

The male stood up and wobbled to the cane. He pulled out a folder, from the desk, and he stared at the gun that lied beneath it. He was tempted, but he didn't touch it, he simply closed the drawer and placed the folder on top of the desk. He traveled to his kitchen, relying heavily on the cane, and came back, a cup of coffee in his hand. He placed the coffee down and sat at the desk. The male opened his laptop, to the screen that had been plastered there for quite sometime...

**Blog of Doctor John H. Watson**

He sighed, and tried to write something. Nothing came to mind. Next thing he knew, he was in the office of his psychologist, or was it psychiatrist? Great. Just what he needed. Another pointless meeting. Another meaningless interaction with human life. He couldn't even remember how he had ended up here. It just happened. That's what his life was like now. It was as if, he was living, completely on auto-pilot. Not seeing anything. Not registering anything. Just  _existing_.

"So, how is your blog coming?" the person on the opposing seat asked him. 

"Great," John stated. He didn't make eye-contact and instead looked to the side. What was the point in staring into that person's eyes? They would just say the same things over and over again. Why was John even here? Repeating the same routine? He really should just stop. Stop existing. 

"You haven't written a word, have you?" the individual questioned, "it would help you. It would. Or don't you believe me? To write about your daily events would slowly let you slip back into civilian life. Please.  _Attempt_  to write."

John looked at the individual. He stared at him, with his dead eyes. There was only  _one_  thing he could say. Only  _one_  thing he ever felt like saying, " _Nothing happens to me,_ " he muttered. And it was true. John Watson honestly felt, as if, nothing ever happened to him. Nothing  _exciting_ , that is.

Again, as if time moved ahead, John found himself walking in the park. When did this happen? Well, it didn't much matter. He was walking here. He was wandering about. That was the only conclusion he could come to. John felt like a lost soul. It hurt him. It did. If only, there was some reaper out there to collect him. That would be wonderful. 

John found himself passing by a park bench with a person sitting there he faintly recognized. John made the mistake of looking into their eyes. He continued walking regardless. What was the point in engaging in a conversation? There was no point. That was the problem. There was no point in anything anymore.

The woman was chubby, a bit overweight, and stood up to follow him. Oh. Wonderful. Just what he needed. Someone  _else_  to talk to. John just wanted to be left alone. That's all. He just wanted to disappear into the night, never to be found or bothered again. Was that too much to ask?

"John Watson!" she called, rushing after him, "It's me! Marion Stamford! Do you remember? We were at Bart's together! Ah, but that was so long ago now. It would be understandable if you didn't recognize me," she paused, as if to try and find the rest of the words she wished to say, "I heard you were getting shot at, what happened?"

John turned around. It seemed this conversation wasn't avoidable. He smiled, faintly, and stated, "I was getting shot at _,_ " Marion didn't say anything to the statement. It was a little too heavy for her to understand. She simply waved for John to follow her back to the bench. He did. There wasn't much else to do anyway. Perhaps, a conversation with an 'old friend' would be nice. It could get his mind off of the dreary atmosphere, at least for a little while.

"What are you doing in London? Staying a while till you get yourself sorted?" Marion smiled. She was trying her hardest to make a conversation. However, John didn't seem very interested, which made things a bit difficult.

"I'd love to stay here, but, I can't very well do that under an army pension," John sighed. He watched the scenery silently, as the wind rustled through the trees. It was quiet. It was pretty. But most of all, it was  _dreary_.

"Ah, that's too bad. What about Harriet? Couldn't she help?" Marion suggested, trying to keep everything a bit more hopeful.

John chuckled, a depressing little noise escaped him, "yeah," he stated, "like  _that_  would happen."

"That's right. I forgot you two weren't exactly on good terms. Well, what about getting a person to share the flat with? That's a possibility."

John laughed fully this time. It still had a sad ring to it, but it was a laugh nonetheless, "who'd want  _me_  for a flatmate?" John asked. He looked over to Marion. The girl couldn't contain her laughter. What was she laughing about? Did she agree with him? Was that it? Was that what she found so amusing? John couldn't tell. He felt as if he had lost all of his ability to connect with  _people_. He simply felt  _odd_  around them. He felt as if he didn't belong. Perhaps, if he was to meet someone more out of touch with social etiquette than himself, he would be thankful that he understood what he did. But, where could he meet someone like that?

"You know, you're the _second_   _person_  to ask me that today," she grinned, wiping a tear from her eye. 

John stared at her, confused, "who was the first?" he found himself asking. There was a small twinge of hope in his eyes. He could feel the air shifting. He could feel the world looking a bit brighter. Maybe, just  _maybe_ , life wouldn't be as  _boring_  if that person was truly similar to him...or even...completely the opposite...

...

"How fresh?" the woman asked. She unzipped the body's bag and stared at the corpse. It smelled, a bit, but it was nothing she hadn't smelt before. She wore an overcoat, a scarf, and very high heels. It's as if she was daring the world to send a serial killer after her, just so she could stab their eyes out with those shoes.

"Uh, er, age 67, just in. She worked here. I knew her. Nice little old lady," the semi-awkward male stood a few feet away from the table. He wore a white lab-coat, a bit too big for him, and had his hair back in a small pony tail. His hair wasn't very long but just long enough to make it work. Some of his fringe escaped the hair-band and hovered beside his face. He was very lovable in appearance. Very nerdy looking. But, for some reason, he still remained single.

"Mm, natural causes? Good. That's  _very_  good. Okay. Let's start with the riding crop, shall we?" the woman looked up towards the man. She smiled. Or, what the male assumed to be a smile. It seemed more like a smirk. The male nodded, understanding, and handed her the riding crop, (where he was keeping that...who knows). 

The woman then proceeded to beat the corpse. Over and over again. The male flinched with each impact. He just wished this whole thing would end. That would be lovely. All of this woman's experimentation with the dead seemed a bit... _odd,_ to say the least.

"Did you have a bad day?" the male asked, laughing albeit nervously.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next 20 minutes," the woman took notes in a book before she sniffed the air, "are you wearing cologne? You weren't wearing that before."

"I, uh, just freshened up a bit," he stated, "uhm, I was wondering," the male scratched the back of his head a bit awkwardly and fidgeted, "if you'd like to have some coffee, wi-"

"Yes, black. Two sugars. I'll be upstairs," the woman turned on her heels and walked out. Her shoes made a loud noise on the tile, enough to drown out whatever thoughts the male was currently thinking. The door slammed shut and the male just stood there. Well, that was nice. Wasn't it?

"-th me?" he finished his question. Sighing, he sat down in a chair next to the corpse, "how about you, Miss? Do you want some coffee too?" he muttered. The male set a timer for 20 minutes on his phone and leaned back in the chair. Why did he put up with all of this? It wasn't worth the trouble.

...

John entered the lab and looked around. Marion had brought him here for some reason. Why? Was this the person? This woman? Here? In this lab? She had wavy dark hair, wore a female suit jacket, and a white button up shirt with black trousers. Those heels must be killer. Who was she? Why was she  _here_? She didn't seem to work in this building...so why?

"Ah, Marion, could I borrow your phone? Mine doesn't have service," the woman spoke.

"Why not just use the landline?" Marion frowned.

"I prefer to text."

"Well, unfortunately for you, it's in my coat," Marion stated. 

John took this as his opportunity to offer his own phone. Reaching into his pocket, he took the phone out. "Here, use mine," he suggested. The woman gave a faint smile, as if to suppress a smirk, and took the phone. Then, without warning, she asked him a question, one he hadn't expected to be asked, especially by a stranger.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" her voice held no twinge of doubt. She was confident in her question. John stared, confusion written all over his face.

"Sorry?" he blurted. He wasn't able to comprehend how she could ask such a thing. Just when he had decided to about to ask the woman about it, a new individual entered the room, holding a cup of coffee. He smiled, at John, and handed the coffee to the woman. The woman just grinned and accepted it. If John wasn't completely confused by the woman right now, he would have found the new male cute. However, his mind was too occupied by other things to notice.

"Thank you, Mark," she said, "what happened to the cologne? Why'd you change your shirt?" she asked, completely ignoring John's confusion.

"It, uh, wasn't working for me," Mark glanced to the side to avoid eye-contact. Yep, definitely cute.

"That's a shame. I thought it was a big improvement. You smell a bit too much like dead-body now," the woman sighed, taking a sip of the coffee.

"I'm sorry, Afghanistan, how did you know?" John spoke up. He was a bit annoyed at the fact this woman was ignoring him. This was one of the main reasons he preferred men. Women were too troublesome. Men were simple. Men were great. Men were  _sexy_.

"How do you feel about the violin?" the woman asked. She, again, took a sip of her coffee while ignoring the main question. John, now officially and thoroughly confuzled, had no idea how to respond.

"Sorry?" he said.

"I often play the violin when I'm thinking. I also tend to not talk for  _days_ , would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other. Or is that wrong? Apologies, it has been a while since I've considered the thought of renting a room out with someone," the woman closed her eyes and let out a sigh. She was  _still_  avoiding the obvious confusion. John frowned. 

"Did you tell her about me?" John turned to Marion. Marion just shook her head 'no' before giggling, "then who said anything about being 'flatmates'?"

"I did," the woman stated putting on her overcoat. She looked at John and popped up the coat's collar, "I told Marion earlier that I was a difficult woman to find a flatmate for. And look at this, she turned up, with a friend recently returned from military service. It isn't that hard to piece things together," the woman smiled, fighting back the urge to roll her eyes at his stupidity, "I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London. We should be able to afford it together. How's seven tomorrow work for you?" she asked, "now, if you excuse me, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary. Got to dash. Things to do, you know?" she continued smiling all the while but John wasn't sure if it was genuine or not.

"Excuse me?" John's eyes were wide from the sheer  _strangeness_  of this encounter, "we just met, I don't even know your  _name,_  and we are going to look at a  _flat_  together?" 

"Problem?" the woman tilted her head to the side. It was  _her_  turn to be confused, "I know you are a military doctor returned from Afghanistan. I also know that you have a sister that is worried about you, but you won't go to her for help, possibly because you don't approve of her lifestyle. It could be because she is an alcoholic, but I think it's more because she recently walked out on her husband. I also know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic. He is quite right, I'm afraid," the woman blurted this all out at an astonishing speed. It took a few minutes before John could register everything she had said. 

"That's good enough, no?" she questioned.

"Just, who  _are_  you?" John asked. He couldn't do a single thing but  _stare_.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221 B Baker St," the woman responded, already halfway out the door. She winked at John before turning to leave. Her dramatic exit, however, was ruined when she slammed her head right into the door. John couldn't help but laugh. She paused, rubbed her head, and let out a groan.

"Doors. I hate them. Almost as much as I hate clothes," she complained, "I'm sorry, can we try that again? I was pretty proud of that exit...and then I went and ruined it. Argh, you know what? Forget it. Seven o'clock. Tomorrow. Don't forget. If you do I'll just have to chase you down. It isn't often I find someone willing to even  _consider_  being my flatmate," Sherlock stated. She carefully turned around this time and glared at the door on her way out, "afternoon," she said, holding up her hand go give an odd wave.

"Yes, before you ask, she is  _always_  like that," Marion stated. John looked to her, then back to the door, then back to her. He had a feeling his life was about to get a lot more  _interesting_...but was that a  _good_  thing?


End file.
